Something Brutal
by Blue Zombie
Summary: This is just a little ficlet about Leo, Craig's never to be trusted manager, and his exploitation of Craig.
1. Chapter 1

I looked at him, sitting on my couch in my apartment in the skyscraper. Such a beautiful kid. Jesus. He can sing, he plays guitar okay, but he's got something. Some kind of vulnerability. I don't know. It's why I thought maybe he could make it in this fucked industry when I saw him at the Showcase back in Toronto nearly a year ago.

But he was fucked up, I could see it. We all had our issues, sure. I just hoped his wouldn't derail everything. It could happen. And I knew about the cocaine. I didn't discourage it. It was everywhere. I used to have the spoon on a chain around my neck in the eighties, it was all cool. Snorted so much candy up my nose I could have bought a small country with the money it cost. Rolled up hundred dollar bills, little squares of mirrors, bathroom stalls, disco clubs. If you could handle it more power to you.

But he wasn't snorting it now, or recently. I could tell. He was a little too sedated right now. I stared into his sleepy eyes, stared at those full lips like a goddamn model, his dark curly hair kind of shiny. Slouched down on the couch, his legs stretched out, knees apart. I watched him breathe, slow rise and fall of his chest.

"Craig?" I said, and he looked up at me.

"Hmmm?" he said.

"Want a drink?"

He nodded, turned away, and I stood up and went to the kitchenette that was just beyond the black leather couch, the glass coffee table. Marble counter tops, recessed lighting, ultra modern bullshit. I had every liquor imaginable and I made him a strong drink. For some reason I liked to see him lose control.

"Here," I said, and watched him wrap his hand around the glass, take a sip. I make the goddamn things so fucking smooth it's like drinking kool-aid. I smiled as I watched that drink go down nice and easy, and he was relaxing. I got him another one and he didn't protest.

He was nearly drunk and it was easier to stare at him, he wouldn't be so aware. Hazel greenish eyes, so large, long lashes like a girl. The downward slope of his nose, the wide smile, hollow cheeks. I wondered, touching the necklace around my neck, I wondered if he swung the other way. I knew he had all these girls, silly high school girls like that red-head who couldn't drum worth a damn but maybe, you never knew.

I had been sitting on the other couch, the one at a corner to the one Craig was sitting on but now I sat next to him. He shifted over a little, didn't seem to particularly notice that I'd practically sat right on top of him. I noticed the fading threads of his jeans, the ragged laces on those converse sneakers he always wore. Saw how his eyes were starting to close.

Okay, I wanted him. Man. It was kind of a long shot. Kid was probably straight, more than likely straight as a fucking arrow. Life wasn't so black and white, though. It wasn't all cute little red-head girls. I'd had my share of cute little girls, sure. But sometimes a tall, kind of skinny, kind of sexy boy will grab your attention and not let go.

I could attack him. Looked at him from the corner of my eye. He was struggling to keep his eyes open. Those drinks were strong. I could lead him anywhere. He was drunk, he was pliable. So I stood, helped him up.

"C'mon," I said, and he kind of stumbled after me as I lead/pushed him to the bedroom. What was choice? What did choice matter all the time? Would he choose this if he was sober? I lead him to the bed, watched his feet tangle up and he nearly fell but I caught him, got him to lay down on the bed and I climbed up next to him.

Started kissing him and maybe he was too drunk to know better but he kissed back, at first. Then he pulled away.

"Hey," he said, the word slurred, and he was angry, tried to get up. I pushed him back down.

"Hey, what?" I said softly, and kissed him again, more insistently, not giving him any leeway. I held his wrists above his head and he fought but I was stronger than I looked, and I liked the fight.

"Shhhh," I said, kissing him again.


	2. Chapter 2

He was strong, even drunk. He was young and stronger than me, maybe. But I had my weight on him, and I wasn't wasted. Clamped my mouth down on his again and he had no choice but to kiss me back. I always liked the yielding that would happen, the giving up when it became obvious that there was no choice.

I'll admit it, I was attracted to him the minute I saw him on stage in Toronto. That goddamn stage presence. I knew the rest of his band sucked, but I didn't want them. I wanted him. And I knew he was the only one who really wanted it, that that band was just for fun with the others, except maybe the girl who had the hots for him. I knew it wouldn't be hard to separate him from them, all I had to do was threaten to take away their senior year and college and all those suburban dreams. Saw the fear in their eyes, the resistance. But not with Craig. He was more than willing to give that up.

And here he was in my apartment, on my bed, his eyes blazing because I wouldn't let him up and was kissing him, my hand trailing down his chest and stomach. He pushed at me with his free hand and I grabbed that wrist so hard and so suddenly that he looked at me with fear in his eyes. Good. What did he fear? I wouldn't do anything he didn't really want to do. I wouldn't push him beyond any limits he'd set.

So I leaned in again, kissed him so softly. Pressed his wrists into the bed, my grip strong and hard.

"Craig," I breathed, his earlobe between my teeth, my breath against his neck.

"Leo, let me up," he said, trying to twist away from me. It made me angry and made me want him at the same time, his resistance irresistible. I didn't know what he was thinking, but this luxury apartment was soundproofed and the dark curtains pulled tight against the windows. He was here and mine for the taking. He was drunk. And I wanted him.

"No. Not yet," I said, my mouth next to his ear, the words whispered. I could feel him beneath me, the racing heart, the tensed muscles, the panic beneath the inebriation. The curls were plastered against his forehead. His lips were parted, his back arced. At any second he'd give up, relax, let me do what I wanted to.

When I saw him on that stage he looked so…I don't know. Luminescent. That voice, that ernest, almost scratchy sexy voice that didn't quite gel with the songs. Too poppy, too trendy, maybe. But it didn't matter, the missing beat and the missed guitar notes and all of that didn't matter when I looked at him and saw how the audience responded to him.

I could kiss him all night, feeling the pulling away and the relenting, feeling his muscles working beneath me. I wanted to go for that button on his jeans, pull the zipper down, slowly, with my teeth. But the anger on his face, the twisting of his wrists, the continuous trying to get away, he'd never allow that.

So I let him go and he pulled away from me, drew his knees up to his chest and stared at me with this almost hate. Through the designer drugs I'd done that night and the shots of whiskey that look got through. I felt nearly staggered by it. Had I caused that look? I peered at him, at the tears that glistened in his eyes and were ready to fall, at his arms wrapped tight around his knees.

I licked my lips, still attracted to him like crazy, and the emotional little look in his eyes, in the drawn up knees made me want him even more. So damaged, so fucked up, and what was more attractive than that?

I swallowed, still staring at him, unable to take my eyes off of him. There was this guilt that came in waves and I could only feel the crest of it. I'd hurt him, maybe, scared him. What was wrong with me? My desires always seemed to get the better of me. But then I wouldn't care, wouldn't feel guilty at all, just felt the desire for him pulling at me. And I'd barely done anything. Kissed him, that was it. If I'd done what I really wanted to do what look would he be giving me?


	3. Chapter 3

My senses were dulled. It happened after the long day of taking this and taking that. I could experience these things, like this fucking gorgeous kid sitting on my bed with his knees drawn up and this mad scared look on his face, I could experience it like a little movie. A little movie that had nothing to do with me.

I could have done so much more. Could have hit him so he'd stop trying to get away, could have turned him over and, and…I licked my lips, watched the tears start to course down his face, watched how his eyes never left me.

"Fuck," I said low, the word expelled like a wad of gum. I left him there, slammed the door. Jesus. What was with him? Some bad experience with a counselor at one of those summer camps? Some homosexual tryst in high school he'd never properly dealt with? That wasn't my problem.

I went into my kitchenette with the recessed lights gleaming on the black counter tops, the stainless steel sink with the wine glasses turned over in it. Lit up one of my menthol fiber glass bleeding lung cigarettes. But those were the ones I liked best. How come everything I liked could fucking kill you? I shook my head at my destructiveness.

I poured a neat scotch, watched the amber liquid swirl on its own weight. They used to say there were demons in the glasses of liquor in the magazine ads. Good. The more demons the better. I drank it down in one swallow, shivered as it hit my stomach all at once. Craig. Jesus Christ was that kid so damn sexy and I just wanted to have him.

Had his angry scared reaction bothered me? I lit another cigarette and watched the smoke twirl up toward the fan, thought about it. No. The opposite. I had liked it. I wanted him to be upset, to pull away, despite how it made me angry. Oh was I a sadistic fuck. And he was in there doing what? Thinking I was going to attack him? I could. I still could.

He was one of those people who didn't realize how they affected other people. He wasn't really like a model, walking around all slinky like a cat, the bored dazed expression on his face, knowing full well everyone, male and female, wanted to fuck his brains out. He had no idea. That's what was so goddamn sexy about him. He was so fucking clueless.

I wanted to go back in there, push him down again, kiss him hard. Take his clothes off, fight against him, get him to submit. To give up. To hear the ragged sucked in breath, to feel his heart beating so fast, so fast.

Even in Toronto I knew he was fucked up somehow. I knew. I could see that he was hiding some kind of hurt. Heard it in some of his song lyrics. That was good for the creative thing, for the layers of complexity he could bring to things, and that meant money. I knew that those looks and the songs and the almost school boy sexy voice would make money.

I poured myself another scotch, brought it to the living room and set it on the glass coffee table. Rubbed my hands together. I licked my lips and could still taste him. I felt almost pulled toward that bedroom. What would it matter what I did? We were all so hurt, hurting each other, one more thing wouldn't matter. He was drunk enough he might not even remember. He wouldn't remember me touching him, caressing anything I wanted to caress, feeling his teeth with my tongue, the rhythm and motion of things making him have an orgasm against his will. He wouldn't remember any of it.

I hit the coffee table when I got up hard, my shin feeling like it was breaking in half. The scotch in its thick glass tipped over and the amber liquid ran down the side and onto the rug in one syrupy line. Didn't matter. I went to the bedroom door I'd slammed, stood outside it, listened. Nothing. I couldn't hear much through the buzz in my own head, low and fuzzy like bees. Swarms of things attacking me. I touched the wood of the door, splinters smoothed beneath the lacquer. Craig. I breathed his name.

I opened it, the click of the latch louder than it should have been. He'd fallen asleep or passed out. He laid on his back and I stared at him, drinking everything in.


	4. Chapter 4

I thought he was passed out so I didn't expect him to jump back when I touched him, just so carefully stroked his thigh through his jeans. He jerked away, eyes wide, breathing fast. He had pulled himself over to the other side of the bed, knees up again. But he was angry.

"What the fuck, Leo?" he said, spitting the words like I had earlier. Despite the anger I could still see the fear. Could smell the fear. The rapid eye movements, like this might be a nightmare.

"What?" I said too sweetly, my smile too wide. Sometimes I felt this sickness with myself, this curdling in my stomach. It happened when I really noticed how much I enjoyed the look of anger and fear in his eyes, how much I enjoyed the quickened breath. How I might do anything to him just to hear him say no.

"Huh?" I said, pushing it. I put my hand on the top of his knee, felt the soft denim under my palm. He pulled his knees closer to his chest but there was nowhere to go now, the bed was against the wall and so was he.

I leaned closer to him and he drew away, such a little boy frightened look on his face, the anger imperceptible. His muscles tensed again. The anger was imperceptible but I knew it was still there. Whatever trauma he was reliving could end in a split second and I'd be faced with an angry and strong 18 year old. But he was drunk, I could see it in his eyes. I'd win no matter how strong he was.

"Huh?" I said again, my voice quieter. I felt the buzz in my head again, heard it like an echo, a cosmic hum. His eyes were glued to mine, and his breath came in short gasps. I pushed his knees down in one hard jerk, pushed him down on the bed, and felt him buck underneath me. Saw the anger return, filling his eyes like storm clouds filling a summer sky. I'd straddled him, could feel his body beneath me, could feel the tension in his arms as I pinned them down. In this position I had leverage.

"Leo, get offa me-" he said, his eyes narrowed, his wrists jerking in my grasp. I smiled my vicious smile and held on. With all of my weight on him he couldn't break free. His fighting made me mad again, made me want him again. He was filled with fear and anger. I was filled with anger and lust.

I'd just kiss him, maybe. That would assuage the demon inside of me. I wouldn't take his clothes off, rip them off. Invade him in places, violate him so deeply he'd never recover. I wouldn't. I'd just take a little bit, not enough to destroy him. And I wouldn't hurt him, I wouldn't hit him, force him to bend to my will. I'd have self control. I could do that, despite the alcohol that I had drank, that was trying to erode my reason. Despite the drugs I had done that were lowering my inhibitions and sense of what was moral or responsible or something sort of social like that.

"Don't," he said, and I let go of one of his wrists. With his free hand he tried to shove me off of him and I hit him, a glancing blow off his cheekbone. The sucked in breath at that, the wide eyes that narrowed with not just anger but hate, and he almost got away from me. I didn't expect quite so violent a response. I pinned his arms down again, held on as he twisted in my grasp.

"Let me go, fuck you, Leo-" His eyes looked dark and bruised in the dim light of my bedroom, and the pleading that I heard inside the anger in his words was eloquent.

I kissed him and despite his turning away I persisted and he gave in, kissed back. His eyes had closed and I saw the tears soaking his lashes. Felt a sickness inside of me, this curdled poison. I could taste his tears. Salty and warm and I caused them. I held his wrists but he had stopped fighting and would kiss me when I kissed him despite the tears.


	5. Chapter 5

Finally, he relented. I let his wrists go and he didn't move them from the spot above his head. I kissed him and he kissed back. I trailed my hand down his chest and his stomach and he didn't stop me.

Maybe I had known all along that I wanted him. Maybe I had used certain power and cache that I had in the music industry to make that happen. That song that they played at the Downtown Showcase hadn't been anything special, and if it hadn't been for Craig, for the sound of his voice and that look in his eyes, the way the lights shined on his hair, the way his muscles moved beneath the long sleeved shirts, the way the denim of his jeans perfectly fit his butt and his legs…if it hadn't been for that I don't think I would have noticed them at all.

Them. Jimmy and Marco and Ellie. Ughhh. What unpleasant complications. I saw his loyalty to them. That's sort of a high school thing. Once you get in that real world you see that you can only be loyal to yourself. Well, what in the hell did I expect? They were all like 17, there was no real world yet.

And Ellie. She had that useless little crush of hers on him, I saw it every time she looked at him, despite the fact that she tried to play it cool. She may have even fooled him, she was that good. But there was no fooling me. I'd seen lust for a long time, and I knew what I was seeing. She'd do anything for him. The crazy thing was I got it. Sometimes, when I was around him, I felt the same dizzy, 'please let me do anything just to have this' feeling that she had. Maybe that's why I separated her so ruthlessly from the pack. What little 17 year old naïve girl would be a match for me?

I felt the softness of his T-shirt and then the rougher material of his jeans, that thick denim. I peeked at him, my eyes barely open. His eyes were closed and he kissed me when I leaned over and kissed him. Good. I touched the button to the jeans, the cold circle of metal, looked at him. He didn't even seem to notice.

This wasn't so bad, I wasn't hurting him. I wondered about his violent reaction before, the drawn up knees, the hate in his eyes, the tears. Felt that feeling inside of myself like a fish twirling in a cold pond, that sick, 'what is wrong with me?' feeling. I could feel his lips with my lips. I could feel his tongue with my teeth. When I looked at him his eyes were closed. Was he just shutting this out? Just accepting because he wouldn't win? I wrenched the button to the jeans that was in my hand, and it came undone. He didn't move, he didn't flinch, nothing. I inched the zipper down tooth by tooth, the metal teeth of the zipper letting go, giving way.

So what was wrong with him? What was the source of the trauma I had seen? I didn't know. Some rape by a male relative, like an uncle or older cousin or something? Then wouldn't this be great? No wonder he was shutting it out. Or maybe he'd just been beaten and neglected by alcoholic parents. Maybe he'd been…I couldn't guess. The permutations of trauma were too great.

I slipped the jeans down, over his hips and off, tossed them to the side of the bed. They landed on the plush carpet, that soft white color that showed drops of wine in garish relief. I caressed his thighs and watched him, he took a deep breath. How far would he let me go?

"Craig," I said, and he opened his eyes. Blank. He was looking at me and there was just…nothing. I had liked the emotional turmoil so much better, it was something to play off of. This resigned giving up? This docile acquiescence? What was I supposed to do with this?

"Craig," I said again, insistent. People didn't do this to me, this ignoring blank thing. Not to Leo. Oh no. He would respond. I'd make him respond.

"What?" What could I say? There was no inflection in his voice. It was almost eerie. He was somewhere else. He was not even dealing with this…this. And it was starting to piss me off.

I sat up, feeling the anger that was always there start to course through me, to bound through my veins. This kid, this fucking gorgeous sexy as hell kid, what the hell? Why couldn't he be…normal? And I knew the non normalness was part of what had attracted me, I knew that. The troubled aspect, the hiding the hurt, the lostness, all of that made me want him like crazy. And here it was, he was pulled in a shell because of whatever damage it was. Why did the things I was attracted to blow up in my goddamn face like that all the time?


	6. Chapter 6

Sometimes it seemed okay, to be sick and sadistic because it was all games, and it was all dulled by the drugs and the alcohol. Or maybe it was enhanced. Whatever. And that was fine, going along, feeling the pull toward blond women with stripper bodies, those almost muscular legs and fake tits and fake blond hair from a bottle. Or boys like Craig, long limbed and doe eyed and just so fucking something. Sexy. Tragic. And all these attributes or character flaws or whatever were just fodder for my sexual desires. But then sometimes it seemed wrong. Those times were fewer, granted.

I had pulled up and away from him and he just laid there, resigned. I felt this sudden anger, this urge to really hurt him and I wrestled against it.

"Want another drink?" I said, and he rolled his eyes toward the sound of my voice. Injured animal. I hit the bed with my fist and that got a reaction from him, at least. He flinched and drew in his breath.

"Do you?" I said, narrowing my eyes at him, the anger in the center of my words. He swallowed, and I could hear it and see his adam's apple move.

"Yeah," he said, sitting up, drawing his knees up against his chest again.

Maybe I had to leave that room for a second. I didn't know. My black leather furniture and shiny super modern apartment mocked me. What did I have to show for myself besides this wealth? That I could get any damn drug I wanted on a moments notice? That I could play kinky sex games? I shook my head, crossed to the kitchen and grabbed the thick square glasses from the cabinet. Craig. He was making things hard for me. Somehow. I felt confused, like I used to feel every day in junior high school.

I poured the amber liquid into the glasses, some cherry juice, vermouth. Stirred it up, the demon heads swirling around and away, and sometimes they were clear. They were inviting me to hell.

I carried the drinks back to the bedroom and handed one to Craig. He took it, reaching out his hand and arm only enough to reach the glass. I watched him sip it. I swallowed half of my drink in one swallow and felt it burning all the way down.

"Alright, look, what is with you?" I said, and the harshness of my words wasn't a mistake. I'd rattle a reaction out of this kid if it killed me.

"What?" he said, all wounded and teenage sulky and just fuck. He drove me crazy.

"What? Have we been in the same fucking room? What is with you? You look like I'm gonna…I don't know. You look all scared-damn it Craig,"

And finally, anger and animation coming back into his eyes. It was that cross-jaw burning anger, the source of which was old and deep. No wonder he had to check out of it sometimes.

"Okay, Leo, just how do you want me to react? You hit me, you tried to rape me-"

The alcohol really made me not care. Rape him? If I had tried I would have succeeded. I didn't consider a few kisses and caresses _rape_, for god's sake.

"Craig," Now my tone was soft, soothing, and maybe sinister. Probably sinister. I sat next to him, slid over to him and felt him tense up again, saw him sip more and more of his new drink.

"Craig, I'm not your father or your step-father or your older brother or the bullies at school or whoever it was that hurt you so much. This is transference. Projection. Pick any psychological bullshit term you prefer, but I'm not that person. Get it?"

"Fuck you, Leo! Jesus! I'm leaving!" He had the courtesy to set his drink down on the edge of my dresser before he jumped to his feet and headed for the door. I jumped up, too and shoved him back into the room. He stared up at me from the floor where he landed.

"You're not going anywhere," I said.


	7. Chapter 7

He was on the floor of the bedroom, staring up at me with those eyes. I could eat up the anger I saw in them. I could taste the pain. It was what I liked, especially if I was drinking and popping pills and just basically getting so fucked up. I took a step toward him and he backed up.

He stood up and I swayed back, feeling really drunk now, feeling a degree of disconnect. This was all happening under some microscope, little organisms twisting and squirming in some dance that really meant nothing at all.

He was taller than me. I hadn't noticed that before. I looked up at him as he took a step toward me, I reached my hand toward the door jam for support. So I wouldn't fall down. Things were starting to sway.

"What the hell, Leo?" he said, and there was some residual slur to his words. His voice, I could almost feel it, so sexy somehow, like everything about him. I was starting to see double and blinked. The images resolved again into one, everything fused back together.

"What?" I said, so goddamn innocent. I licked my lips. How I would have liked to just fuck him, just do whatever it was I wanted. But things were fading, things were swimming. He was looking at me with the narrowed eye look, the disgusted puzzlement that made me feel like some societal parasite.

" 'What?' " he mimicked me, and all fear and reliving some childhood trauma was gone. This was the angry 18 year old I'd been trying to provoke, and my luck he would emerge when I was least able to hold my own. I tightened my grip on the door jam, felt my fingers slipping.

He shoved me lightly, his fingertips just below my shoulders. I staggered back, lost my grip on the edge of the door. Soon I'd be on the floor, and what would he do? It wasn't quite the same game when you're at someone else's mercy.

"Don't, you can't do shit like this, _Leo_," he said, and then another shove, harder this time. I stumbled back. He could hit me. I wouldn't mind. It wasn't like I was feeling too much right now. Maybe I could feel a punch through this numbness.

I gathered myself together. I'd been doing this shit a long time, drinking, drugs, faking that I was fine while being totally fucked up. Higher than the proverbial kite. I'd done it in enough meetings with record exec big wigs, I could do it with some traumatized to fuck kid.

"Craig," I said tenderly, and ran my tongue slowly across my upper lip, "I didn't mean to scare you…"

I started toward him slowly, not caring what he'd do. Maybe he'd shove me across the room, hit me over and over. At this point, in this sick twisted hazy blue ocean of nothingness I seemed to be in, any connection would be good. Or at least real.

I reached him, and this close I could see the brown and green flecks in those weird hazel eyes, I could see the beard stubble on his cheeks, I could feel his breath against my face. I put my arms around him and leaned in to kiss him, and he kissed back. I felt his tongue against mine, felt his teeth, hard and unyielding. He kissed me hungrily for a second, like he was giving himself permission. Then he shook his head and pulled away.

"No, Leo…" but now his voice was weaker, his tone confused, and I took that second to kiss him again, to keep kissing when he tried to pull away. Maybe it's easier for him when he doesn't have a choice.

Somehow we had reached the place in the room where his back was against the wall, and I pushed up against him, could feel his body pushing back against mine.

"It's okay, Craig, what does it matter?" I said, and lead him to the couch, pushed him down on it.

"It matters," he said, but allowed me to kiss him, allowed me to so slowly undo the button to his jeans, and pull the zipper down, slip my hand inside. His eyes were half shut, and his breathing was deepening. I kissed him so slowly, pulling away and coming back and now he hungered for it, opening his mouth, letting me stroke and caress what I wanted to. He was mine.

"Why?" I whispered in his ear, "why does it matter?"

"I don't know," he said, closing his eyes.


	8. Chapter 8

It was almost hard to tell who was more fucked up, more inebriated. I thought it was him but sometimes it felt like it was me. From time to time I was slipping into a black unconsciousness, black-outs, and I'd come back unsure where I was, who I was with, who I even was. So maybe it was me.

That was going away, though. I was here, in my bedroom with the bed with the black silk sheets and the crystal lamps and everything as expensive as shit. I was in my overpriced penthouse apartment with my overpriced drugs coursing though my veins, rushing toward my brain. I was with this kid, this sexy as hell fucked up kid that I found in Toronto and took. And now I'd do what I wanted with him.

He was pretty fucked up, too. His eyes would close and his body would go limp at times and I'd touch him and taste him and then he'd stiffen up, he'd look at me with the fear that I couldn't define. He'd struggle and I'd hold him down, and put my hand around his throat and tell him not to move.

"Leo, no…" Oh his soft pleading was driving me wild. The desperate pulling away but I was in control again, I was leaning on him and he couldn't get up.

"Yes," I said, contradicting him, bending him to my will. It was my will that mattered. I didn't care about the tears in his eyes that turned the funny hazel to a beautiful green. I didn't care about the shaking and the shuddering reaction, the tensing every time I hit him, every time I touched him. I kissed him and he opened his mouth and kissed back. Maybe he knew he'd damn well better bend to my will.

"No," he said, his voice soft, his eyes squeezed shut, but his body reacted to the caresses and the pressure. Despite shaking his head and begging me to stop I felt him responding to me, felt his body yearning for it. Such discrepancy between the mind and the flesh. It was almost fascinating.

I held his wrists down and saw the tears coursing sideways from his eyes, and with his eyes shut he was shutting me out. He was always taking some little bit of the control from me. Despite the full red lips and the strong jaw line and his long limbs and sexy scratchy voice he was pissing me off. He was disappearing inside of himself. I didn't like it.

"Craig," I said, my voice sharp. I itched to hit him again.

"Look at me," I said. He obeyed, opening his eyes slowly. I stared into them, eating up the hurt and the fear that I saw there. It was just so real with him, so immediate. I knew someone more important than me had hurt him in the past, and I was looking at the echo of that now.

Hurt and fear, and the occasional anger. It was creeping back into his gaze, and it was being focused on me. Sure, why not? I'd baited the tiger. I'd pushed the buttons and pulled it out of him. I felt almost warm as the laser glare of his anger focused itself on me.

He tensed up in the way that meant he was going to push me off of him. I could read the physical signs like a book. I anticipated. I punched him on the arms and chest and a glancing blow off his cheekbone until the tenseness went away.

"Don't think about it," I whispered in his ear in my best sinister voice, "I am in control now,"

Eyes closed, his head turned away from me. I marveled at what a bastard I was, what a sick sadistic fuck. Conscience raised it's beady-eyed, ugly head. What was I doing? Taking advantage of him in almost every way, hurting this beautiful boy who was really little more than a child. 18? What was that? What did 18 year olds know?

It was fun only so far. I relished the control, relished taking what I wanted but then it would back up on me, like a good meal gushing like vomit into the toilet, all soured and spoiled. I saw the tears that kept coursing down his cheeks, I saw the trauma I was causing, or recausing somehow. His jeans were slipped off of his hips, and one of his hands was held down by my grasp, palm up, making him look vulnerable. I wasn't holding his other wrist but it was in the same position as the other one, and he didn't move it. His breathing was shallow now, and I could smell the fear on him. He wasn't moving at all.


	9. Chapter 9

Back in my kitchen, sickened with myself. I felt on the edge of puking. I'd overindulged again. I groped for my pack of cigarettes on the counter, the soothing green and white package. Shook one out. What in the hell was I doing?

I couldn't be this evil. This wasn't consensual. This was no where near that. Not that I was about mutual things. I liked the balance of power to be shifted in my direction. I knew myself well enough to know I got off on that.

Maybe I was tired of everyone's baggage, including my own. Fucking Craig. So what had happened to him? Rape, probably. I'm sure he's always been this beautiful, and not everyone can keep their hands off of beautiful things. Maybe some beatings by school mates, being held down and hurt, and maybe it was just on the razor edge of sex. Their faces close to his, telling him not to move.

I shook my head, blew my smoke up toward the cathedral ceiling. Whatever it was it was fucking up now. Couldn't I kiss him and caress him without him freaking out, flashing back? Maybe he was misinterpreting my actions. Maybe I was misinterpreting his reactions. Whatever. I didn't know.

I heard movement from the bedroom and stiffened, tensed. What would he say to me, accuse me of? My head was spinning. Didn't he know I was just drunk and high? Off my rocker? I couldn't keep my hands off of beautiful things either.

He appeared in the doorway, the edge of the hall and the living room. Open concept. I gazed at him. His eyes, it was obvious he'd been crying even though they were dry now. But they were laced with red and puffy. I could see the faint beginnings of bruises from where I'd hit him.

Everything was on the surface with him, this exquisite play of emotions. It was part of why he was so captivating on stage. Watching him you wanted to know him, you wanted to feel what he felt, and you could. He was angry with me, that was the top layer. He was scared. He was angry with something else, someone else. I stood still, not knowing what to do.

"Leo," he said, kind of quiet. There was so much blame in the way he said my name, I was tried and convicted in that one word. It was enough to cause me to bow my head. So I had fucked up. What was new?

"Craig, uh, listen…" I had nothing. I'd fucked up. I thought the world was this candy store just for me. The words crashed into my head. Selfish. Ruthless. Heartless. I was without things, like maybe a soul.

"Leo, I'm leaving," So quiet. What did he mean? Leaving my apartment? Leaving Vancouver? Leaving the industry, music, the whole lot of it? Leaving could be a bottomless pit.

He started for the door, my flat gray apartment door with the tiny peephole at eye level. I crushed out my cigarette in my blue glass ashtray and blocked the door, stood in front of it like a sentry. I put my hands on his shoulders. He was taller than me. I was looking up.

"Craig, no, I'm sorry. Don't leave," Now I was the one who was pleading. The tables had turned. How neatly they had turned. But I thought maybe he had held the power all along.

He shook from my weak grasp, turned away, his expression tight and closed. I could see the red in his eyes, the tiny spider like veins in the white of his eyes, the funny color of his iris, brown and green and blue all at once.

"Leo! I'm gonna go! Get out of my fucking way!" I was washed in the force of his anger, and it wasn't all for me. I knew this. I perked up at the sound of his raised voice.

"Craig, you don't have to go, it's okay…" I was at the door and wouldn't move. I didn't want him to go, didn't want the apartment to be so empty, filled with my cigarette smoke and my empty shot glasses and me. Just me.


	10. Chapter 10

**The sun was shining in full force, diminishing my apartment somehow. The glare of the sun made the leather furniture look cheap, like some synthetic plastic. It highlighted the rings and stains on the glass coffee table. I could see all the lint and dirt on the white carpet. My eyes felt glued shut. My mouth tasted like an ashtray. I tried to figure out what time it was based on the position of the sun in the sky.**

**I sat up, the change of position causing an almost blinding flash of pain to shatter my head. I closed my eyes against it and leaned back weakly. I was too old for this. What was I doing?**

**I sat up again, slower, treating myself like a delicate piece of china that might just shatter into a billion pieces. I took the slow steps to the kitchenette to get my coffee, a sip of juice, and a Tylenol. The way my head felt, like a drum turned inside out, like a corrugated metal tin drum with all those dents in it, I might need a bottle of Tylenol.**

**It was mornings like this, the sun shining like a recrimination, the fuzz on my tongue thick like fur, the shadowy half knowledge of what I might or might not have done filtering in slowly, mornings like this I swear I'll stop. I'll stop the drinking and the drugs, I'll stop the sick games, the power trips. Sometimes I just want to wake up and feel good, not like I was run over by a truck.**

**I had a cup of coffee and clung to it like it was some life raft, and I was deep in the sea. I sat on the black leather couch and flipped the T.V. on. The way the sun shone on the T.V. screen made my head hurt even more and I groaned. Every cell was dry. I had that thirst, that insatiable hung over thirst.**

**After a cup of caffeine and three extra strength Tylenols I was feeling marginally better, almost well enough to take a shower. I made my slow way across my apartment, the clang of the coffee cup in the stainless sink causing a slight reverberation in my head. I clung to the smooth wall as I made my way from kitchenette to bathroom. I hung in the doorway, my black tiled bathroom oddly soothing. Maybe it was because there were no windows and all that smooth blackness with its muted reflections. The cool wall felt good beneath my hand.**

**My cell phone rang off its hook. I saw it vibrating on the coffee table, jangling against the glass. I held my head and took a step toward it, then another.**

"**Hello?" I said, my voice a low growl.**

"**Leo, Jesus, are you just waking up?" It was my assistant, Ian.**

"**Uh, no, of course not. Why?" I held the phone to my head and made my way back to the bathroom slowly, lest I should splatter intoxicated molecules all over my plush carpet.**

"**Look, I'm just your assistant, not your mother, okay? But you have a pretty full calendar today. You have that meeting with the record execs from the states, you have your appointment at that spa on Humboltdt Street , you know the one…you have a meeting with Jakalope and that kid from that band there, what the hell's his name? Craig…yeah. So you have all that to do and you're just getting up, aren't you?"**

**Ian had this way of grating on my last nerve, of scraping the insides of my head raw. And I'd forgotten about that meeting with Craig. **

"**Yeah, uh, no. Don't worry, I'm on top of it," I said, hanging up as the events of last night crept back in the fractured fashion of these things. Jesus, I'd attacked the kid. I was only getting snippets. I saw him hugging his knees, his eyes red, the tears. I saw myself hitting him, kissing him, all caught up in those beautiful eyes and the trauma that was so tantalizing with him, all that trauma just below his surface. Would he even show?**

**I shook that thought off. It didn't matter. If he didn't I'd just go into any club in Toronto or Vancouver or Calgary, Winnipeg, anywhere, and scoop up another delicious kid with a decent voice and a hint of promise. It didn't matter. Nothing hinged on him. So fuck him.**

**The coffee had fully kicked in, the Tylenol helped, and my body had enough time to replace the lost fluids that by noon I was feeling better, less ravaged, just lightly bruised. My appointment with Craig hung over my head, and I wondered if he'd really show up or not. I hated that he had me thinking like this. I didn't want other people to have this sort of sway over my thoughts. Every time the thought crept in I banished it. If he showed up for the damn meeting then he did, if not oh fucking well.**

**My meeting with the states' execs went fine, par for the course. My spa appointment, a nice rejuvenating message, got rid of the last aches and pains of my hangover. I felt ready to face things again. Ian was busy typing up my letters and e-mailing them away, fetching me coffee, keeping things straight. I smiled my sinister little smile on the message table, getting a glimpse of Ian. Slender kid, early twenties, baby fine reddish blond hair and dark little eyes. I could never tell if he was straight or what way he swung. Didn't matter. I couldn't fuck with Ian. I needed him too much. He kept shit straight, and when I didn't show up somewhere he smoothed it over with the convincing excuses. I needed him.**

**Dressed after my message, sipping a foamy latte Ian had been so thoughtful to provide, I paid my bill and followed Ian to the waiting car.**

"**C'mon, we're almost late. You don't want to keep Jakalope waiting," Ian, faggy little nag, God love him. I nodded and followed him into the waiting car idling at the curb, watching him juggle papers on his smart dress slacks lap.**

**The office building loomed, all blue glass and steel shooting straight into the sky. The car rode as smooth as a ship on calm seas, and I serenely sipped my coffee. I felt the stomach twisting anticipation at seeing Craig again. Searching out the hurt in his eyes. I ignored the ice cold fear that he left, left me and the deal and British Columbia all together. I closed my eyes, seeing a map of my own veins and the red glow of my closed lids. Had I hurt him enough to make him go away? **

**Inside the room, the windows looking blankly out on the city spread below, the bored faces of the Jakalope people, and no Craig. Ian scanned the room for him. He had lists of all my meetings and of everyone who should attend, and the panic started to fill his little black eyes. He raised his trimmed eyebrows at me and I read his mind, 'where is he?'**

**I shrugged, not caring, rubbing a hand over my stylish stubble. I didn't give one shit. Ian looked at his list again, looked around the room, at the door in desperate hope that Craig Manning would suddenly appear but I stayed cool. I was a cucumber, baby.**

**The head Jakalope guy, a sturdy little fucker in his late fifties, glanced at his expensive wristwatch.**

"**Where's your golden boy, Leo?" he said, and I remained calm despite the flutters of panic trying to tear my thoughts away. He left, he left, he was serious. I'd pushed him too far. Ian looked at the door in a beseeching way, willing Craig to appear.**

**More glances at watches from the Jakalope execs, and Ian looked at me with dawning knowledge and horror. He knew me. He knew my capacity for fucking things up.**

"**Uh, Leo," Ian started, ready to pull me aside and grill me, when the door to the office cracked open and Craig stepped inside. The relief that flooded me was bittersweet, and I saw it echoed on the faces of everyone there. Goddamn it, was shit riding on this kid? A fucked up little musician from Toronto? Was this really the case?**

**Craig looked rough, to say the least. He was in the same clothes as last night, and they were wrinkled, stained with alcohol and blood. He hadn't shaved and the slight stubble gave him a derelict look, and his eyes, his eyes. He glanced at me and when he did I sucked in my breath and looked away. **


End file.
